The Lost Stag
by VanossWriting
Summary: Formally of royalty, an Andal boy now roams the city of Qohor, caught up in a dastardly plot in which thousands may die. Will he find his way home? Or will he make a home for himself in the Free Cities? (Updates are random)(Only OC's for now)
1. Prologue I: The Smith

**Free City of Qohor**

* * *

It's been nearly a year after the death of Robert Baratheon. Robb Stark, King in the North, has married a Volantene girl named Talisa rather than Roslin Frey. Renly Baratheon is dead and Stannis has rallied the Stormlands against King Joffrey. Despite this, the streets of Qohor are bustling as usual, with citizens sacrificing to the Black Goat and Unsullied patrolling the walls and streets as if it were any other day. Things are normal and simple, except for one boy in the crowd.

A lone, black-of-hair boy wandering through the streets, looking for somewhere to stay. A lone, black-of-hair boy carrying a satchel by his side, looking for someone he could trust. Then, a color catches his eye. After weaving through slaves, Unsullied, and citizens with dyed hair, he comes to the front door of a local bladesmith. "Open" the sign nailed to the door says, to which the boy obeys and opens the door with a creak. Closing it behind him, he looks around and sees many fine blades, with knives, swords, and even pikes and spears dotting the quaint shop. A head pops up from behind the shop owner's counter.

_"Ah, a new face. Welcome!"_ The bladesmith says in Qohorik. The Andal, who looks to be around sixteen years of age, raises a brow. Shaky and tired, the boy speaks.

"Can you speak the Common Tongue?" He asks in a low, raspy voice, to which the smith laughed.

"A Westerosi! Tell me, what brings you so far from home, boy?" He asks with a smile. The boy shakes his head and walks closer.

"It's a long story. I just came from Qovosar." He explains, standing in front of the counter. The smith nods and squints at him.

"Yes, but you're not from Qovosar. Whe-" The boy cuts him off.

"I don't feel like answering these sorts of questions right now. I walked from Qovosar to here. I need rest, and I was hoping you could help me." The boy says firmly, looking the smith dead in the eye. The smith simply laughs.

"Of course, I'd be glad to! I always have a room for travelers like yourself." He says, walking around the counter and leading the boy to the second floor of the building. "The question is can you pay?" He asks when the two stop at the door of the room. The boy sighs and reaches into his satchel, digging around until finding coins.

"How much?"

"Two coins per night." The smith answers, and the boy fishes out two triangular coins marked with the Black Goat of Qohor. The smith gladly takes the coins before unlocking and opening the door of the room. "Get some rest. You'll need it." He tells him as the boy walks inside. The smith then shuts the door, leaving the boy to set his satchel in a chair and plop onto the bed, groaning and staring at the ceiling.

The sounds of the street below begin to become muffled, drowned out as the boy struggles to keep his eyes open. Then, wrought with exhaustion, the boy succumbs to unconsciousness.

* * *

The boy opens his eyes as warmth envelops his now conscious body. He lifts his head, causing a voice to emerge. He looks over and sees a brunette woman sitting in a chair, and he realizes he's in a bath.

"Someone finally decided to wake, I see." The woman says, approaching the edge of the bath. "You had some cuts and bruises. I was told to help." She says in a calm voice as the boy just stares at her.

"D'you work here or something?" He asks her, to which she laughs.

"I'm told you're from Westeros. You're not familiar with this place." She giggles as she begins to massage his shoulders, easing the built-up tension. "You've met my master, Daario." The boy freezes, forgetting that slavery is common in the free cities.

"I need to speak with him." The boy says intently, to which the slave pouts.

"Oh, but I've been enjoying your company." She grins as one of her hands begins to go from his shoulder down his chest. "I was hoping you could enjoy it too, if you'd like." She purrs into his ear, but the boy in unfazed.

"Please stop touching me. I must speak with Daario." He states in a louder tone than before, causing the slave's eyes to widen. He must be very determined to refuse a woman's touch.

"As you wish." She sighs, backing away and fetching a cloth for the boy to dry himself with. The boy sighs as he grabs the cloth.

"You've already seen what's to be seen. Go tell Daario that I'm to speak with him." He orders her, having no doubt in his mind he wasn't stripped and bathed by the smith. The slave nods and leaves, to which the boy exits the bath and dries himself off. Shortly thereafter, once he's dressed in a clean tunic and pants, he goes downstairs to see the smith. He comes in right as he's dismissing a customer.

"Ah, the Andal has awoken. I trust Ezerre treated you fairly? She's very friendly." He jests, nudging the boy's shoulder. The boy gives a nod of agreeance. "Now, she told me you wanted to speak with me?"

"Yes," the boy looks around the shop and past Daario, "but not here. Come." He says, leading the smith up to the boy's room. Once they're inside, the boy bolts the door behind him. He then goes to the window and looks outside. "Yeah, this'll be fine."

"What are you talking about?" The smith asks, prompting the boy to turn to him and grab him by the shoulders.

"Do you have any ravens?" He asks seemingly in a rush. Daario nods in response.

"I have a few."

"How many exactly?"

"Three."

"I need five, as long as I can trust you." The boy's voice seems shaky now, and Daario gives a concerned look.

"Yes, you can tru-"

"You don't understand. If what is spoken in this room is told to anyone else, we're dead men. The Magister will come for us." At this, the smith becomes suspicious. The boy releases his grasp, only for Daario to start slowly walking towards the door. "Please, you've got to trust me! How can I make you trust me?" He pleads a little too loudly.

"Tell me who you are, Andal." Daario commands, and the boy takes a deep breath after a few seconds of silence.

"You want to know who I am?" The boy asks, to which Daario nods. "Alright. I'm Josiah of House Baratheon." Daario's eyes widen at this sudden knowledge, and he opens his mouth to say something. "There. I held up my end of the bargain. Now promise me you'll keep what's said here between us." Josiah demands, and Daario nods.

"You're the Lost Stag." He says, and Josiah rolls his eyes.

"Yes, that's what some call me. Long story short, my bastard brother became king and put a price on my head to secure his claim to the throne. Ever since, I've been trying to get as far away from Westeros as I could. But that's not important. What _is_ important is this." Josiah says as he pulls a letter from his satchel. "This was attached to a raven supposed to be sent to Khal Zekko, but it was shot down over Qovosar." Daario visibly trembled at the mention of Zekko.

"Who could even think of negotiating with a _khalasar_?"

"Magister Groleo." Josiah answers, handing the paper to Daario.

_To the esteemed Khal Zekko of Rhaesh Khadokh,_

_I have gathered all the patricians and their families. In a fortnight, we will leave the city with its gates open. We will also take our Unsullied with us, as we'll need them. You should have no resistance. Do as you please with my city. The more damage you do, the better. Afterwards, we shall frame the treacherous Bearded Priests of Norvos for what "they" have done to us! Once you have sacked the city, feel free to do the same to my feudal vassals._

_May the Black Goat guide you,  
Groleo of House Togott, Magister of Qohor  
_

"Zekko is a fool." Daario mutters as he reads the letter. "I guess that's why the Magister calls upon him. So, if this letter is legitimate, why were you sent to dispatch ravens?"

"Lord Tagganaro needs all his capable men with him in Qovosar. He plans to defend his own land when Zekko comes. He sent me because I have little combat experience." Josiah replies, and the two sit in silence for a minute.

"It says it will occur in a fortnight. When was the raven shot down?"

"A few days ago. I'd say we have a little over a week before the attack. That's why we must release the ravens tonight. The city is doomed, but the lords can at least protect themselves."

"Perhaps there's a way to save the city." Daario says, stroking his chin.

"What do you mean? We have a week before thousands of Dothraki screamers come pouring in during the night to rape the city! What can we do?"

"You've met the right smith, Andal. I can call in a favor or two."

* * *

**So I tried writing again. It's probably shit, but at least I got it done. I would've put more into this initial chapter, but I didn't want it to be packed with shit. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, let me know. Peace.**

**-VW**


	2. Prologue II: The Captain

**Inside Daario's workshop**

* * *

The familiar sound of the front door opening catches the smith's attention as he prepares some steel to be forged. Daario turns to see Areo, captain of the city watch. He prays for the man often. He's burdened with having to train volunteers to be at least as good as the Unsullied. It may sound easy, but Qohor has been at peace for decades. The people do not know of conflict or war, let alone the one looming over their heads. They have no desire to join the City Watch. This means recruitment is low as well as morale. Not like that matters. Areo alone is worth ten Dothraki, despite the years catching up on him. He still wields that sword Daario made him all those years ago: a spatha with a Black Goat pommel. The smith steps around the counter and embraces his old friend with a hearty laugh.

_"It's so good to see you, Daario!" _He proclaims as they step away, allowing some space between the two. _"Still forging weapons, I see."_

_"Yes, but business has never been near as good as during our war with Norvos." _Daario remarks, watching his friend's face as he remembers the last time Qohor was at war.

_"Ah yes, when the High Priest of Norvos caught Lord Vargano sleeping with his wife."  
_

_"Yes, and Vargano, in all his wisdom, kidnapped her. Unsullied are sent to battle, leaving the city under your watch."_

_"And then the whole Norvoshi army is on our doorstep." _Areo takes a slight pause before the pair laughs. _"Now, where's this Andal you spoke of in your message?"_ He asks Daario, looking around the shop.

_"He's in the basement training his 'swordsmanship' as they call it. I'm letting him use my old falcata." _The smith replies, making the captain's eyes widen.

_"How old is this boy again? Does he know how to use a sword?"_

_"Well, he cut himself this morning when I first gave it to him, but he's a fast learner."_

_"Good. If what you've told me is true, he'll need it."_ He says somberly as he moves towards the basement door. Daario stands in front of him, concerned.

_"Woah, where are you going?"_ He asks, standing between him and the door.

_"The boy knows of this plot more than you do. I have to speak with him if I'm to prepare my men for the Khal." _He answers, to which Daario steps out of the way. As much as he hates to admit it, there isn't much time. Every second they spend bantering is a second they could use preparing for the inevitable.

The boy freezes as the door creaks open, followed by heavy footsteps thudding against the aching wood. Then, Josiah resumes twirling the sword around, the blade only nearly missing his person as he gets comfortable with the sword. A voice beckons his attention mid-swing, causing the boy to nearly cut himself again. Annoyed, he turns to see the brawny grey-haired Areo. He dons a bronze breastplate and a white cape, adorned with a sigil of a black goat holding a shield in the center. _This must be the city watch captain that Daario mentioned_, he thinks. He folds his arms and looks the Baratheon dead in the eye.

"You must be the Lost Stag." He states, and Josiah sets the falcata on a nearby crate. The captain steps forward. "I am Captain Areo." The boy reaches out his hand, which Areo looks at for a second before giving him a confused look. Josiah remembers he is in Qohor, and people here do not abide by Andal customs such as handshaking.

"Why don't you have a seat, captain?" Josiah gestures for him to sit in a nearby chair, and the boy pulls up the crate with the sword and sits down, setting the blade on the cold ground. He recites the same story he told Daario last night, if not a bit abbreviated. He also hands him the same note he showed Daario, signed by the Magister. After silently reading it, he hands it back and sighs deeply.

"This is... most troubling." He shudders.

"Are your men trained?" Josiah asks, hoping to the Seven he says yes. He nods reluctantly.

"They are few in number but well equipped. I'd seek to recruit more, but," he pauses, "I cannot risk this getting known. Groleo is as quick to anger as he is unpredictable. If the populace finds out about this, there's a chance he'll simply order the Unsullied against them or us, perhaps both."

"I understand. We ought to keep peasant deaths to a minimum. How do you think we should handle this?" Josiah asks, calling upon the captain's higher experience in strategy and combat. Areo simply stares at the floor for a few minutes, thinking. Then he speaks.

"The note says the gate will be open. We could either simply close the gate or use it to our advantage."

"How do you mean?" Josiah questions, his curiosity now piqued.

"If we were to use the gate as a funnel and block out the alleyways, we could lure the Dothraki in. Then we close the gate behind them. They'll be sitting ducks!" He proclaims, as if the glass candle in his mind has been lit.

"And what of the other gates? Won't they be open as well?"

"We'll have to focus on the main gate. I can dispatch men to the other gates to close them once they're unguarded. Look, we can discuss this later. Pick up that sword and come with me."

* * *

Areo and Daario lead Josiah out of the shop and into the streets of Qohor. The trio begin making their way to the southern part of the city, where the main gate rests. At some point, they turn into an alleyway and begin to bob and weave through the slums of the southeastern district. Josiah looks around, thankful he stayed in the main street when he first arrived. The Baratheon, weak and weary, wouldn't have lasted a minute here by himself. However, when accompanied by a large man such as Areo, petty criminals tend to stay away. Still, Josiah can't help but feel bad for these people. They're Qohor's poorest, living within their own empire of mud. They remind him of the poor residents of Flea Bottom. He then recalls hearing of Joffrey passing through the streets and ordering his guards against the small folk, to the surprise of few.

The trio round a corner and come into view of a complex that sticks out like a sore thumb among these poorly-built shacks. The headquarters of the city watch, a rather grand facility in comparison to the rest of the district. The complex is surrounded by four eight-foot walls of sandstone, and at each wall is an entryway into the complex. The entrances are guarded by watchmen who wear armor much like Areo's, except theirs lack paint.

They wear bronze helmets with noseguards and large protrusions to protect the nape of the neck, only exposing the mouth, chin, and eyes. They don in their left hands aspis shields adorned with the same shielded goat that's on Areo's cape. In their right hands, they hold dory spears seven feet in length. They approach one of the entrances and Areo nods to the watchmen, allowing them to enter. The inside of the complex consists of three buildings: a barracks, an armory, and the headquarters that held the captain's quarters. The complex itself is quite desolate, with only a handful of watchmen in the courtyard training.

Areo leads the two into the headquarters, which opens up to a rather large room with a rectangular table in the center with four chairs at each side and one at the head. On the wall is a map of the city, with pinpoints in each of the seven districts to indicate the presence of the city watch. Areo gestures us to sit down, and Daario and I sit down next to each other while Areo sits at the head of the table.

"So... we have a week or so to prepare for this attack. We suspect they will focus the main gate, here." Areo states, pointing at it on the map. "I was thinking I could set my men here, in the street." He points a bit further down the main street, about a thousand feet from the gate. "My hoplites will form a phalanx to halt Zekko's advance. Once the screamers hit the phalanx, we will close the gate. I will also put archers on the wall so, when the gate closes, they can let loose against the riders both in and outside the city."

"If we manage to get Zekko himself inside the city by the time the gate closes, there will be nowhere for him to run. His _khalasar_ will collapse." Daario notes. When it comes to the nomadic culture of the Dothraki, they usually unite under one leader and disperse when that leader is dead. It happened when the Great Khal Drogo was left comatose and unresponsive. It will happen again if they manage to mount Zekko's head on a spike.

"Will your men be enough to repel the attack?" Josiah asks, drawing a sigh from the captain.

"Perhaps. I'll need every man I can get." Areo responds, walking slowly towards a window to look at the few men training in the courtyard. "That means you, Andal." He says looking over his shoulder at the boy. Josiah's face twists into a concerned look.

"Me? I haven't had a proper fight in... well, a while." He half-chuckles, which draws a snicker from Areo.

"Nonsense! I'll make a hoplite out of you yet. Follow me." The captain orders, to which Josiah obeys. As he stands, Daario lets out a light chuckle, as if Josiah got the short end of the stick. Areo is quick to raise his voice. "You laugh, friend, but I have something else for you." He grins at the smith before taking the boy out into the courtyard. He whistles at one of the men, who stops what he's doing and turns to face Areo. Dory spear in hand, he removes his helm with his free hand. His black hair reaches almost to his shoulders, and his long face is clean shaven.

"_Your orders, sir?_" The man asks, not seeming to notice the foreign boy behind his commanding officer.

"Alright, Baratheon. This is my second, Tychos. Tychos, this is Josiah. I want you to train him to fight. Be quick with it too, we haven't much time." Areo says before turning around and walking back into the headquarters, leaving Josiah with the lieutenant. Tychos eyes the boy up and down before meandering over to grab some equipment for him.

"When did you last eat, boy?" He asks in a stern voice, handing Josiah a dory spear.

"This morning. What is it you're going to teach me?" Josiah asks in response, holding the spear with two hands.

"What I know. Now, hold the dory like this." The soldier takes one of the boy's hands off the spear. "The spear is designed for the phalanx. You hold with one hand. Use the other for your aspis." He says as he gives the Baratheon a bronze shield, which he fastens to his left forearm and puts his hand in the grip. The shield itself is large enough for Josiah to rest it comfortably on his shoulder, which helps enormously due to how heavy it is. Tychos takes a few steps back and gives Josiah some room. "How does it feel?"

"It's... quite alright, actually." He replies, getting used to this foreign weaponry. He himself takes a step back to lower the dory, its iron tip leveling with the spike on the lower end. He can almost make out a grin forming on the lieutenant's face.

"Good. Now, take a jab at the dummy." Tychos points at the training dummy, and the black-haired boy steps in front of it. Josiah raises his shield towards the dummy and lowers his spear. "You're too hunched over. Straighten your back a little." He orders, and the boy complies. Taking a step forward, he thrusts the spear forward, cutting the dummy's side. "Good first try, but a hoplite does not thrust to cut. You must try to impale your enemy. Try again." Josiah resumes his original position, steps forward, and thrusts his spear. The tip strikes center mass, but barely pokes through the cloth.

"Dammit." Josiah mutters under his breath, starting to get visibly frustrated. Tychos, however, is unphased.

"You're giving the bare minimum. When you thrust, do not ease up on the way. Follow through. Equipment is heavy, so you must not waste energy with tiny thrusts. Try again." He says, crossing his arms as Josiah gets in position. He steps forward and thrusts his spear. This time, the iron tip breaks through the cloth and buries itself into the dummy, which brings a smile to Josiah's face. He retracts his spear and looks at Tychos. "Good work. Keep in mind, it's a cloth sack. Your enemies will likely be armored to some degree. Try to go for weaker spots like the legs, unless you're confident you can pierce their armor. Hand me the spear." Tychos requests, and Josiah hands him the dory. The lieutenant sets it aside and pulls out a couple of wooden xiphos swords. "You're an Andal, yes? You were taught how to use a sword?"

"Yes," Josiah nods as takes a wooden sword, "just not swords like these."

"You mean shortswords. Our swords may be shorter, but we use them no differently. This shouldn't be too foreign to you." He replies as he equips an aspis shield and approaches Josiah. "Throw some swings at me." Josiah steps forward and, shield up front, throws a wide swing from the right. Tychos blocks it with his shield, but Josiah follows it with a wide swing from the left. Tychos takes a step back to dodge the attack and notices Josiah has allowed his shield to drift to the side, letting his guard down. He takes a wide step to his left and thrusts towards his opponent, which Josiah parries to the side and follows with a quick strike at Tychos's shoulder. The two start to widen the gap between them, and Tychos lets out a light chuckle. "You're alright. Not brilliant, but not terrible. Who taught you?"

"A man named Jon Arryn. Friend of my father, if you will." Josiah answers as the two slowly stop pacing around each other.

"He taught you well. I wouldn't mind meeting him." Tychos remarks, causing Josiah to furrow his brow. The older man fears he struck a nerve.

"Lord Arryn died a year or so ago. It's... complicated." Josiah lets out, trying to resume focus on training.

"You needn't say more of it." Tychos says calmly, acknowledging the new line in the sand. "Shall we continue?" He asks, and Josiah takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Sure."

* * *

A few hours go by before a third face joins the courtyard. By now, Tychos had gotten Josiah familiar with the aspis shield, noting how adaptable he is. Just as the sun begins its descent in the sky, marking the afternoon, Areo comes outside to meet the duo. Soon after, Daario exits the headquarters and gives a wave to Josiah before jogging away, presumably back to his shop. Areo gets the attention of Tychos, who motions for Josiah to practice his spear thrusts while the two talk.

"How's he holding up?" The older man asks, and Tychos looks over his shoulder before returning his gaze.

"Better than I originally thought. He's a fast learner," the lieutenant answers, "but there's a lot of material to cover. How much time do we have?"

"A week or so. I will dispatch scouts in a couple days so we'll know for sure when they come." Areo looks over Tychos's shoulder at Josiah. "Let me speak to the boy." Tychos steps aside, allowing Areo to walk in a straight line towards the Andal. He whistles, which gets the attention of the boy. He sets his spear down gently, but keeps his shield equipped. "So, do you think in a week's time you'll be ready?"

"At this rate, I think so." Josiah answers with confidence, not noticing the furrowed brow Areo is sporting.

"Good. Listen, I gave it some thought and... perhaps I was a bit hasty to get you ready to fight." Areo scratches the back of his neck, and Josiah raises a brow. "You are here on your own terms, so I will give you that choice. Do you _want_ to fight?" Josiah opens his mouth as if he knew the answer, but stops. He starts to ask himself that very same question. Does he really want this? He thinks about it for what feels like an hour, in reality a few seconds.

"No. No, I... I don't." He answers, yet his grip on his shield fails to loosen. "But you said yourself you'll need every man you can get. Thousands of Dothraki will pour in through those gates ready to cut down every man and rape every woman, which means what I want no longer matters."

"So you _will_ fight?"

"I must try."

* * *

**Whelp, I did it. A full year since I started writing this story and I finally fucking finished the second chapter. I just wanna apologize for taking so damn long. I did as I frequently do when it comes to writing fanfiction. I had an idea, started writing, then thought I should plan it out first so it isn't a total train wreck. In the process, I completely lost motivation to write. But now that I'm officially a high school graduate, I've decided where I want to go with this story. I want to use this story as sort of a rewriting of _Game of Thrones_, so it's not just "insert character into universe and make them fuck a Stark". My main goal is for y'all to finish reading this story (if I ever finish it) and say "well, it wasn't as bad as Season 8."**

**In all seriousness, let me know what you think and where I can improve. I usually write in first person, so I gotta get used to portraying inner monologues like Martin does in the books, which I find especially difficult with writing in past tense.**

**Peace.  
-VW**


	3. Prologue III: The Khal

**City Watch Courtyard**

* * *

The air was filled with a single sound: the crackling fire. All the men sitting around it say nothing. They all fear the coming hours. Josiah is no different. He finds himself having trouble keeping his dinner down, despite his training and the many reassurances he's received from the other watchmen. Who can blame him? The same men who told him 'you'll be fine' are struck with the very same fear. The only man around the fire who's seen combat before is Tychos, who fifteen years ago stood beside Areo during the scandal with Lord Vargano. They had trained to fight Dothraki should the day come. The day has arrived, and none of them are truly prepared. In a few hours, _Khal_ Zekko will charge into the city with all the warriors in his _khalasar_. The city watch consists of 544 able-bodied men, including Josiah. 544 men must fend off 10,000. The thought does little to satiate the growing anxiety within the group.

"Why the silence?" A familiar voice breaks the tension among the group. The men turn to the source and see Areo carrying a large clay jar. Setting the jar down and removing the cap, he walks around the fire to fetch some cups. "It's the nerves, I know. It's normal, brothers. All we have," he walks back to the jar with the clay cups and begins to fill each of them with the liquid inside, "all we know is at stake. We fail? It's all gone."

He begins to hand cups to the soldiers, each filled with what appears to be wine. Each man takes one reluctantly, as it often isn't wise to drink before a fight. They take the drinks regardless, letting their captain's words sink deep. Josiah sips his wine, only to find Areo had it watered down. Just enough to calm the nerves without (drastically) dulling the senses.

"But, you should let your fear motivate you. Fear will give you more motivation than a thousand speeches." Areo says as he takes a seat next to Tychos. "Remember your training. Follow your orders. Trust in our God. Do these three, and you will see the sunrise."

"Looks like I'm fucked, then." Josiah jests, being the only one in the group who doesn't believe in the Black Goat. The rest give light chuckles as their nerves start to die down. Soon, others begin to tell their own stories and jokes. All the while, Josiah would sit and listen tentatively, drinking the atmosphere of the conversation like the wine in his cup.

Strange how he used to think these people to be oddities. Their God, their food, their clothes, everything about them is foreign to him. Everything but themselves. They laugh, cry, and fear like any other man he had known. They tell stories about love, tragedy, adventure, and drama. No different from when he watched his father's bannermen drinking, laughing, and sharing stories the night before they marched off to crush the Greyjoy Rebellion, leaving Josiah behind in Riverrun.

_Gods_, now he's thinking of home. He never really gave it much thought after he fled King's Landing. The day he left was the day Eddard Stark was arrested. The honorable fool had discovered the truth of Joffrey's parentage and thought it a brilliant idea to try to get Josiah on the throne. At least, that's what he heard. He wasn't there to actually see Lord Stark's arrest. But he did watch one of his bannermen get slaughtered by a goldcloak. That was all he needed to see.

He was glad he got out when he did. He knew Joffrey would kill Ned, no matter what their mother or his bride-to-be would say. And he could only imagine what Joffrey would do to him. It's not like the threat of becoming a kinslayer would discourage the golden-haired brat.

Or perhaps Cersei would make sure he was safe. Perhaps it mattered not how much he resembled Robert, how much he reminded her of her failed marriage. He was her son, a living testament to not just her horrible relationship with Robert, but also the fact they _tried_ to make it work.

He would be alive. No more than a hostage to be humiliated and mocked at Joffrey's whim, but alive. _Hostage... _Josiah shifts his gaze to the center of the fire, a pained expression coming forth. He thought of _her_, and how he _abandoned her_.

He'd get sick every time he thought of how she screamed as her father was beheaded.

"Andal!" Josiah snaps his head in the direction of the voice. One of the men, Llaro, had caught him staring into the fire. "Did you see a vision in the flames?" He says jokingly, rousing laughter out of the rest of the group.

"Maybe he's trying to pray to all seven of his gods." Another man, Illatos, adds as he sips his wine. "It's so much easier, praying to a single god."

"I didn't make the rules." Josiah snickers, watching his wine swirl in his cup.

"That's true. But you can change the rules." Areo remarks, straightening his back with a grunt. "It's been done before. Aegon the Conqueror changed the rules when he took Westeros with dragons instead of men."

"He had power. You need to be powerful to change the rules." Josiah bluntly states, something he no doubt takes from his father. He downs the rest of his wine and looks to the rest of the group, holding his arms out. "Do I _look_ powerful?" He asks sarcastically, earning a few laughs from his peers.

"No," Tychos takes a sip of wine before he continues, "not yet. But the future is uncertain, and all we can do is try to put ourselves on the right path for us. I promise you boy, if you _try_, your day will come." The words weren't exactly foreign to Josiah. He'd been given the same talk over and over from his father.

_Most people have to earn power or take it,_ his father would say. _But not us. We're Baratheons. Power is in our blood._ He surely meant well with such statements, though they gave Josiah (more so, Joffrey) the notion that they need not work to become powerful; it'll simply fall into their laps. It certainly was true for the elder brother. He sits on the Iron Throne doing whatever he pleases while Josiah awaits his certain death at the hands of _Khal_ Zekko.

"Someday..." Josiah simply nods, opting to look down at the ground rather than meet the eyes of his comrades. He stares into his empty cup, and the tiny leftover droplets of wine stare back at him. _More wine_, he thought. He stands up and looks at the sword at his hilt. Daario's falcata. He thought of driving it into a Dothraki, perhaps cutting his throat. He's never taken a human life. The thought shakes him to the core. He isn't ready. _More wine_.

Josiah quickly shuffles toward the wine jar, all too eager to rid himself of the anxious thought. Areo, noticing his sudden anxiety, fills his cup generously, and Josiah almost immediately takes a large gulp. It's nowhere near as good as Dornish red, and the fact it smells like rotten eggs does not help. But when the nerves become too much to bear, smell doesn't seem to matter much. Josiah licks his lips of the liquid and looks to the rest of the men.

"But not today."

* * *

A lone rider advances quickly towards the main gate, his face wrought with desperation. Llaro notices him through one of the arrow-slits in the gatehouse, and he blows a horn signaling the return of a scout. The rider barrels through the gates and doesn't stop until he's reached the wall of men. Even if Zekko was expecting resistance, this wouldn't be it.

The phalanx, led by Areo himself, is five ranks deep, with seventy men in each rank. With each man standing shoulder-to-shoulder, they cover the entire street. Areo picked this spot specifically. It's far enough from the gate to where they won't be immediately noticed, but close enough to receive support from the archers atop the wall. The icing on the cake is the men themselves. The first, third, and fifth ranks are standard hoplites. Spear in one hand, shield in the other. The second and fourth ranks were different.

Pikemen. Each man wore a helmet similar to that of the hoplite, but without the distinctive nose-guards. Their shields are smaller so they can fit on a man's forearm, leaving both hands free to hold the sixteen-feet long pikes. Areo knew a simple phalanx simply wouldn't do the trick. It worked for the Unsullied hundreds of years ago against _Khal_ Temmo, except they started with 3,000 and ended up with a few hundred at most. They lack numbers and thus cannot afford to go the traditional route.

The plan is simple. Once the Dothraki are through, the infantry will enter the phalanx. The pikemen will stop the cavalry advance while the hoplites will take the brunt of any stragglers that get through the wall of spears. Once the horde hits the infantry, the gate will be closed, effectively cutting off any escape for those inside as well as any entry for those outside. When the gate slams down, the archers on the walls will start to rain arrows on both sides.

It's simple. It's unexpected. As far as Zekko knows, it's all going to plan. The Unsullied are gone, Lord Groleo and his conspirators are gone, and the gate is open. The city watch will be nowhere to be seen, until it is too late.

Josiah would be down there. He wants to be down there. At least, that's what he tells himself. Part of him is grateful that Areo simply assigned him to the gatehouse. It's his duty to drop the gate when the time is right. He still can't help but feel guilty for not being in the fight, after pledging himself to do the very thing he cannot do. _At least it's something,_ he thought.

The scout doesn't even need to dismount. Areo knew it was time. Josiah peeks his head through an arrow-slit, and he can see it. A large, uniform mass barreling across the grassland towards the city. Five minutes, perhaps less. Josiah finds himself resting his spear against the wall and setting his helmet to the ground. One final moment to collect himself. A prayer, perhaps. He can't remember the last time he truly prayed.

_Father, I pray to you to judge me fairly and justly for my deeds, good and bad._

He can already hear their yelling and hollaring.

_Mother, I pray to you to be merciful upon my soul should I fall tonight._

Their voices grow louder and louder, and the infantry start to feel the vibrations of the stampede. The scout quickly rides to join the soldiers on the wall.

_Maiden, I pray to you to keep my soul pure so this fight may draw me no closer to damnation._

The infantry silently lock their shields and lower their spears as the Dothraki approach the gate.

_Crone, I pray to you to guide my mind so my actions are sound._

The horde, led by Zekko himself, begins to pour in through the gate, each rider's _arakh_ raised high above them.

_Warrior, I pray to you to guide my blade and defeat those who stand in my way._

"Brace yourselves, men!" Areo shouts, and the infantry remain unwavering.

_Smith, I pray to you to steady my hand and mend my injuries as you would fix a blade._

The cavalry draw closer. By the time Zekko notices the bronze and steel before him, it's too late. The momentum is too great. His horse does not wish to go further, but does so anyway. It knows stopping will lead to being trampled. All the _khal_ can do is pray as his _khalasar_ charges towards the spears.

_Stranger..._

_SLAM_

Zekko's forces charge right into the phalanx, with the men and horses not impaled by a spear being trampled by the sheer momentum of the horde. Many spears and pikes break due to the force of the charge, leading some soldiers to flip their weapons around and use the other end. The sudden stop of the horde sends a massive, collective cry into the streets of Qohor.

A few riders who had survived the initial impact made their way between the spears in an attempt to break the phalanx. Arakhs in hand, they charge the wall of shields as a few hoplites retract their spears to deliver a powerful thrust towards those who come near. Zekko is nowhere to be seen, despite how obvious it ought to be to spot him. It mattered little, though, as the riders had begun to slow down due to their unplanned encounter with the city watch.

That's when Llaro sounded the horn, causing Josiah to snap out of his stupor.

He dashes towards the massive wheel, which raises and lowers the iron gate, attached to the floor. Normally, several men would have to grab the wooden appendages of the wheel and collectively push in a single direction to bring the gate up or down; but when times call for the gate to be closed with haste, a lever is placed next to the wheel. When pulled, it will immediately drop the gate.

Josiah grabs the lever and pulls on it with all his strength, until eventually it succumbs and flicks to the opposite end. A loud _crank_ echoes through the gatehouse as the wheel turns very quickly. Several seconds pass before the gate meets the ground with a mighty _thud_, crushing any man or horse unfortunate enough to be caught underneath.

Another horn sounds, as the archers atop the wall reveal themselves. Sounds of panic begin to resonate within the Dothraki horde. Those outside fear for the safety of their khal. Those inside fear for the safety of themselves.

"_Nock!_" Llaro shouts in his native tongue, the archers around him grabbing an arrow out of their quivers. Riders close enough to the gatehouse dismount and make their way up the stone stairs.

"_Draw!_" Archers on either side take aim at the array of targets below. The few infantry stationed on the wall meet the Dothraki at the top of the stairs.

"_Loose!_" The sound of the simultaneous loosing of arrows fills the air, followed by that of the arrows burying themselves into the lightly armored Dothraki. Meanwhile, Josiah had his head in his hands. Horrible thoughts were swarming his head, and listening to the sickening thwacks of the arrows hitting their targets did little to help. He barely noticed the growing commotion from the battlements.

_Wait..._

Donning his helmet, shield and spear at the ready, he opens the door leading out onto the battlement. There, atop the stairs, having just cut down a hoplite, was _Khal_ Zekko. He towers at six feet, taller than both Josiah and his father, though his muscle mass is hardly greater than the boy. His braid dangles down to his waist, his beard down to his chest, and his body, though littered with cuts and bruises from the battle, is void of any prior markings or tattoos.

Perhaps the most alarming part, if not intriguing, is his armament. Not one, but two _arakhs_, each shining brightly in the moonlight. The _khal's_ eyes meet Josiah's, and the boy momentarily freezes. Not because of the _khal_ himself, but that he seemed completely uninterested in the relatively defenseless archers around him. He did not come for the archers.

He came for the gate.

In the corner of his eye, Josiah spots an archer turning towards the _khal_. As he's drawing his bow at the Dothraki leader, Josiah turns and sees Zekko approaching him. Very quickly. By the time Josiah raises his shield and the archer lets loose, Zekko had already closed the distance. The arrow narrowly misses the man, flying between two archers on the opposite end of the battlement. The _khal_ swings his blades at Josiah, which he blocks with his shield.

"Focus on the men below! I'll handle this!" He blurts at the archer as he backs into the gatehouse, with Zekko following him. The taller man locks the wooden door behind him, and Josiah begins to think. _I shouldn't have said that._ He raises his spear towards the towering figure, only illuminated by the surrounding torches and scarce moonlight. Josiah tried– and failed– to hide his regret. _I should NOT have said that._

"_When I'm done, they won't recognize your corpse._" Zekko boasts and takes a few steps forward, but Josiah's face changes very little; mostly because he had no idea what he said. He could only make out the word for corpse: _khadokh_. He sidesteps slightly to make sure the rear-end of his spear doesn't get caught on the wall.

"Please shut the fuck up." Josiah responds with exasperation before he steps forward and thrusts his spear, going with a swift offense. Zekko steps to the side, dodging the spearhead, and brings his blades towards the shaft of the spear in a scissor-like fashion. The inner crests dig into the wooden shaft, and with this newfound grip on the spear the khal pulls hard on it, attempting to disarm his opponent. Josiah finds his grip loosening and regrettably relinquishes his weapon.

_It wasn't a struggle I could've won,_ he thinks to himself, already trying to give himself excuses. He can already hear his father's bellowing criticisms. Josiah doesn't even notice Zekko, with one arakh embedded in the shaft, bringing down his other blade upon the weak point and breaking off the spearhead. Shield still raised, he draws his shortsword, Daario's falcata. Only one word permeated through his mind. _Stall_.

He had now gone into full defense. If an attack came from the left, he blocked it with his shield. If it came from above or the right, he'd parry it with his sword. He simply had to buy time for the men outside. He cannot fight fire with fire. He must stand his ground. And as blow after blow from Zekko is met with defiance, Josiah can see frustration contorting the _khal's_ face and manipulating his movements. He started getting desperate, and the boy was unaware how determined he was.

Josiah raises his shield toward the man, ready to block an attack. He does, but the Dothraki doesn't aim for him. Parallel to each other, the _arakhs_ swing from the boy's right and hook onto the edge of his shield. Zekko grunts as he uses this vice to pull the shield away from Josiah, leaving him completely vulnerable if not for his bronze chestplate. The taller man opts to, rather than strike with his blades, drive the butt-ends of his swords upwards into Josiah's jaw, sending him backwards and his helmet falling to the floor.

Josiah takes a few steps back, quickly raising his shield just in case Zekko wanted to push on. With his sword hand, he lightly brushes his jaw and takes a moment to ensure none of his teeth had been knocked out. _Fair play_. Not bothering to give his opponent an opportunity to strike, he presses forward rather than retrieve his helmet. He resumes his defensive stance, but this time much more wary of the _khal's_ movements.

The two eventually lock into a brace, the _khal_ trying to utilize his foe's exposed face. His right arm, blocked by Josiah's bronze shield, cannot reach its target. His left isn't much closer, the shining blade in its hand locked with the boy's more worn one. The stag and the stallion are locked in place. Suddenly, Zekko's left arm raises, freeing its blade, before bringing itself back down with force, knocking the sword out of Josiah's hand. _Shit_.

Then he did it again. He hooked his _arakhs_ into the shield and tore it away. But this time, he raised his blades high above him, about to bring them down onto the boy's head. Josiah notices with almost no time to spare. As the two blades come down towards his face, he sends himself backwards hoping the blades will miss him.

They do not.

Josiah doesn't notice this until his back has splattered against the wall. It's then he notices the stinging, then the throbbing pain. He feels himself sink to the floor, the warm red fluid streaming down his face. His vision went narrow, and all he could see was Zekko, his glistening blades now adorned with the boy's blood.

He closes his eyes, waiting for the final strike. Voices of his father begin to flood his head. _So THIS is how you die? Killed by a Dothraki?! My prime has long passed, and even I could've killed him. Seven Hells, Myrcella could've killed him! You call yourself Baratheon?!_

The final strike never came.

Josiah opens his eyes at the sound of a deep churning. Loud, cranking metal. As his tunnel-vision subsides, he finds the source of the noise. It's Zekko. His _arakhs_ are sheathed. He's pushing the wheel. _The_ _gate_.

Josiah slowly brings himself to his feet, disregarding the blood dripping from his face. His eyes never leaving the _khal_, he tightens the strap on his shield before advancing towards him. He grabs Zekko and throws him away from the wheel, catching him off guard. He then raises his shield and charges towards him, the shield colliding with the Dothraki and Josiah carrying him away from the contraption.

The wheel quickly reverts to its original position, with the gate closing once again. Eventually Zekko finds his footing and halts Josiah's advance, his hands gripping tightly on the sides of the shield. He quickly detaches one hand to unsheathe an _arakh_, prompting Josiah to deliver a punch to his opponent's abdomen. He becomes momentarily distracted by the knocks on the door, the men on the other side shouting in Qohorik Valyrian. Zekko was not distracted.

He pushes away Josiah's shield and quickly delivers a strike into Josiah's stomach. To the boy's horror, the _arakh_ had managed to cut through the bronze protecting his innards. It wasn't enough to cut through the leather underneath, though. It mattered little, as the force alone was enough to send Josiah flat on his back, his shield now against the floor.

He looks to his right and sees his broken spearhead, just in reach. He reaches out to it, but he's cut off by Zekko stomping on the edge of his shield. The pressure, combined with the already awkward position of his arm, forces his arm out of its socket, eliciting a gut-wrenching cry from Josiah. Despite this, his eyes remain on his spearhead, desperate to get a hold on it. His fingers barely graze it, just enough to turn it towards him.

As his fingers wrap around the shattered wood, he feels Zekko's knee on his stomach. He summons the strength to turn his head towards his foe, and he sees the _khal_ preparing to make the final strike, his _arakh_ raising high. Josiah must strike first. He ignores the pain in his shoulder and the stinging in his face, and he thrusts the spearhead towards his attacker.

In the blink of an eye, the look in Zekko's eyes shifted from anger and fury to surprise and fear.

He exhales sharply, but he fails to regain his breath. The pair look towards Zekko's chest, where Josiah had thrusted his spearhead into the _khal's_ diaphragm. Their eyes meet again, and for the last time, as Zekko's grip loosens and his _arakh_ falls to the ground with a _clank_. He looks at the boy with disbelief, and all he earns from his killer is a small grin.

Then he falls backward, darkness overtaking him, and hits the floor with a _thud_. _Khal Zekko is dead_.

Josiah could sense his own darkness coming for him. Whether it was from exhaustion or his own injuries (or both), he did not know. But he welcomed it all the same. He was already deep into unconsciousness by the time the gatehouse door was finally broken down.

* * *

**Holy shit, this might actually be the longest single chapter I've written. Like, ever. Which is fucking awesome. There's no way in hell I could've pulled this off 5 or 6 years ago when I started writing fanfic.**

**Now that the prologue is officially over, I can get this shit rolling. I start college in less than two weeks, so that's probably gonna hamper me. But I'm gonna try goddammit. I'm not sure when I'll update next, but hopefully sooner rather than later. Anyways, hope y'all enjoyed.**

**Peace, y'all.**

**\- VW**


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